Mother’s Day Gifts

Before I get started with this Mother’s Day extravaganza, a few housekeeping items:

1) Thank you so much for all your votes. I think I might tell you all of the stories at one time or another given the response. That’s my gift to you for being such awesome people. I’ll tell you how the vote broke down at the bottom of this post because if I do it up here I’ll give away the story.

2) Apologies to those of you who are double awesome and went looking for my post on Our Mommyhood bright and early on Tuesday. I shoved my foot pretty deep in my mouth on that one and bragged about my guest post before it went up.

3) Recently, my husband moved the car seat to the middle of the backseat. He never told me why. Think he’s been reading my blog?

4) This is a picture of my parents:

So, yes, in case you’re wondering, my mother is eleven feet taller than anyone else in our family.

Now as I’ve said before, I remember having a tough time living in the same house with my mom. She does not recall this.

But living downtown by myself sophomore year of college was rough. I was a lone wolf. The only place I could afford to live was far from anyone I knew. My mom would come up regularly to hang out with me and even bring pizza to my broke ass. She brought my dad with her sometimes too. (I jest – I suspect my dad would have slept on my couch 24/7 if he thought he could get to work easily. He’s secretly a teddy bear.) This makes me start to appreciate my mom. A lot.

When we got close to my lease being up, I realized I had some money in the bank. And since home ownership is SUCH A GREAT INVESTMENT I considered buying a condo.

Now, it’s important to know that at this time I was working 20 hours a week as an intern, going to school full time and working 40 hours a week retail to make ends meet. I was losing it.

My parents showed up to drive me to the condo showing to find me in complete and utter meltdown. I could not find my keys and was due at work shortly. I was trashing the place to find the keys so we could get out the door.

Here’s the part where I tell you: it’s the little things I beat myself up for. Can’t become President of these United States? I don’t care because not many people can. Can’t find my keys? Clearly I am a failure at life because no one else in the history of forever has ever lost their keys.

So, I’m in meltdown.

My mom finally stops me. Tells me to put my hands on my head.

Pats me down. Ah. There we go.

The keys were in my pocket.

In my pocket, people. I am so not joking.

Here’s where I really start to lose it but my parents haul my ass out to the showing. Because, having lived with me for two decades, they know that this crap spirals. Every tiny goal I miss now will cause me to be more violently insane.

We miss the showing by a minute. The realtor had just left. I am so ridiculously over tired and distraught I can barely breathe. Not only can I not find my keys, real estate agents don’t even think I’m worth sticking around for to try to make some money off me. I have failed at life.

My mom does the only thing a parent can do in this situation: she bribes me with McDonald’s.

I continue to weep. It is not a pretty sight. People likely think my parents are having an intervention for their wayward daughter.

As it is Sunday, we are surrounded. There are families with kids, people stopping to get something to eat before church, even a group of homeless people who have banded together to worship in McDonald’s.

The Head Homeless Guy (HHG) even stops by to wish me well. No one likes to see a crying presumed-addict.

I start to pull it together and make a plan. I need to quit a job. It’s too soon to buy a condo. I start to feel like I can make it through the day. To calm my nerves, I eat a Sausage Egg Biscuit.

While I’m eating the HHG stops by again. My dad buys him a sandwich. The HHG mentions that it’s nice to see me calmed down. Which almost makes me cry again until he says this:

“But I do have a question for you: How did you turn out white? You know, since your dad is Mexican.”

Please go look at that picture again.

My tiny, white, but extremely tan little father stared at him. None of us knew what to do. I started to laugh. I think one of us may have told him my dad was white too. At which point he checked out my dad again, wondering who he was and why he was with us.

My husband and I now make jokes about Alex being part Mexican. And I am constantly tempted to ask my mom who my real father is.

Happy Mother’s Day!

And now, a nice photo of my parents so my mom doesn’t get too mad about the one above (but really, it was the best photo to illustrate the story. I love you Mom.)

BTW for those of your curious the final vote count was

A) Why don’t you help your sister: 0
B) You Look Like One of the Beatles: 3 (Liz, you were counted twice)
C) Hairy Like a Gorilla: 3 (this one surprised me)
D) How did You Turn Out White?: 10
E) All of the above: 7